Inman? No. She knew Mama, she knew about Operation Save, but she might be hard to convince if Alisha had her hooks in deep enough. People into psychics the way Viveca Inman was would fight like hell to keep from admitting they’d put their faith in crooks.
That left Judge Mantle. She thought about him a little, and… oh yeah, he was the best choice. The perfect choice, matter of fact-just so long as she stayed cool and handled him the right way, no mistakes.
18
Zachary David Ullman lived in Daly City, in one of the houses that march in long, close ranks up and down across the spines of the hills overlooking Candlestick Park, the bay, SFO. Ticky-tacky houses, Malvina Reynolds called them in her sixties song “Little Boxes.” Ullman’s was exactly like all the others on his street except for its color, dark brown with pale blue trim, and a couple of stunted yew trees along the front wall next to the garage.
It was after five when I pulled up in front. Fog rolled sinuously along the winding street, up and around the houses, blotting out the bay view. Three hundred days a year it would be either foggy or windy up here; the people who bought these homes on one of the few clear days and expected to enjoy regular sunny vistas would always be disappointed.
I sat in the car for a couple of minutes, looking over at Ullman’s house. A not very new Hyundai sat on the cracked concrete driveway and there was a light on behind a curtained front window above the garage, so he was home. He apparently lived alone; the only blot, if you could call it that, on his exemplary record was a divorce nine years ago. He was thirty-five, had no children of his own.
Anger had ridden with me on the drives to the condo to pick up the tin box and then on up here, but I had it tamped down now. Mostly. I wanted to be sure I was in complete control before I went over there and had my talk with Ullman. Getting in his face, hurling accusations, figured to be counterproductive. The situation called for a more subtle approach. I had no real proof that the tin box belonged to him; the fact that he was the only Z.U. at Whitney Middle School was circumstantial at best. You had to be very careful in a case like this, where a man’s livelihood and reputation were at stake. The last thing I could afford was a lawsuit.
Still, I had a feeling he was the right Z.U. Emily always responded to authority figures; I should have remembered that. She was more likely to believe and let herself be talked into protecting a teacher than one of her classmates. It wasn’t the probable fact that Ullman was a recreational coke user that had me so upset; it was the way he’d used and manipulated Emily. That and bringing cocaine onto school grounds, as he must have done, and then being careless enough to lose the box there. Where else would she have found it?
Okay. I got out and crossed the street, hunching against the bite of the wind-driven fog. The entrance to Ullman’s house was on the side away from the garage, up a short, inclined path and a short flight of concrete steps. A few seconds after I rang the bell, a dead-bolt lock clicked and the door swung inward.
He was slightly built, with regular features and thinning caramel-colored hair, wearing slacks and a tan sweater with suede elbow patches. He did a mild double take when he saw me, his eyes widening and blinking-soft brown eyes, like a melancholy hound’s, eyes that could melt the heart of a naive thirteen-year-old girl. Expecting someone else, I thought, and caught off balance to see a stranger standing here instead. None too pleased about it. And suddenly nervous.
“Yes? May I help you?”
“Zachary Ullman?”
“Yes? If you’re selling something-”
“I’m not.” I told him my name, nothing more. It didn’t seem to mean anything to him. “My daughter is a student at Whitney Middle School.”
“Is she? In one of my classes?”
“That’s right. Her name is Emily.”
It took him about three seconds to put that together with my last name. His expression didn’t change, but his body language did; you could see him drawing up tight, so tight that his posture straightened into a stiff vertical line. He made an effort to keep his voice even and polite when he said, “Yes, of course-Emily,” but it didn’t quite come off.
“Mind if we talk inside? Pretty cold out here.”
“I… no, I’m sorry.” He moved forward half a step, widening his stance, as if he were afraid I might try to push my way inside. “I really don’t have the time right now. If you’d like to make an appointment for a consultation at the school-”
“Now, Mr. Ullman. It won’t wait.”
“What won’t wait? Why are you here?”
I took the tin box out of my pocket, held it up in the palm of my hand. He had to look, but only for a couple of seconds before his gaze shifted. He was holding on to the edge of the door and I saw his fingers clench, the tendons in his wrist stand out like cords. The pressure made the door move slightly from side to side.
He said, “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“Yours, isn’t it?”
“It is not. Did Emily tell you it belongs to me?”
“Emily didn’t tell me anything.”
“Then what makes you think it’s mine?”
“It has your initials on it.”
“ My initials?”
“Z.U.”
“Yes, well? They’re uncommon, but I’m sure quite a few other people have them.”
“Not at Whitney Middle School.”
“… Just why are you here?”
“I think you know.”
“I don’t know. How did you find out where I live?”
I just looked at him.
“I tell you, that box isn’t mine,” Ullman said. “I’ve never seen it before. Anyone could have scratched my initials on it.”
“On purpose, to implicate you?”
“Implicate me in what? What are you implying?”
“Not implying, stating. I think the box is yours.”
“I’ve just told you-”
“The box, and what was inside it.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The hell he didn’t. He was so twitchy inside that rigid body you could almost see him vibrating, like sensitive machinery whirring away within a pliant casing. The door kept wobbling, as if he were struggling against the urge to slam it shut in my face.
The sound of an approaching car grew out of the fog behind me. Ullman heard it and his gaze slid away from mine again, past me to the street. Headlights crawled through the wet mist, brightening as the car drew abreast of the house. When it went on past without slowing, he tongued his upper lip, his Adam’s apple working, and then looked at me again.
“Cocaine,” I said.
“… What?”
“Inside the box. A little tube of cocaine.”
He said, “What?” again, trying to sound surprised; that didn’t come off, either.
“Emily found it at your school,”
I said. “Then it must belong to one of her classmates. I’m a teacher, for heaven’s sake-”
“Teachers have been known to use cocaine recreationally. But the smart ones use it in the privacy of their own homes. They don’t bring it to school and then lose it where kids can stumble on it.”
